


add insult to injury

by youretoolate999



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - No Band, Blood, Depression, Drinking, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Smoking, TW: Self Harm, author is not familiar with british slang, call me out tbh i need guidance, flatmates, i think oop, im so sorry, i’m... not english/british please correct any of my cultural mistakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youretoolate999/pseuds/youretoolate999
Summary: paul’s well-kept secret of a coping mechanism isn’t so well-kept anymore.((keep yourself safe! this contains relatively graphic depictions of self harm. please check tags!!))
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney, George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr, George Harrison & Paul McCartney, John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr
Comments: 45
Kudos: 97





	1. intro

**Author's Note:**

> i’m sorry (kind of) for posting this for everyone to see, as it’s quite terribly written and completely and utterly OOC. i think. once more, this is me projecting onto people who have probably never ever done things like this ever, so this is a disclaimer of sorts. 
> 
> aLSO, i’m not very good at writing, and this is a WIP, as most of my fics will be. any and all criticism is welcome, unless your name is ch*cl*tt*s. :) i’ll stop now. hopefully you enjoy!! or don’t. suffer with me either way!!!

Grimacing, he dragged the blade along his wrist. The almost translucent line appeared uniform, blood soon beading up along it. It stung, the familiarity comforting in a sick way as the same old sticky red fluid slowly dripped down his pale skin and slithered to his elbows with ease. 

It pooled there, lining the minuscule ridges in his flesh and soaking into the arms of his rolled-up shirt. He had abandoned his legs for this, thighs and ankles scarred enough; it was time to explore new frontiers. The wrist and shoulder were popular choices, stereotypical at best but not unacceptable. Definitely not unthinkable.  
Not anymore, at least. 

He was different now, broken. Well and truly off the deep end, as they say. His addled mind justified every action he took, clouded and crippled judgment leading the way down the path he’d chosen - more so stumbled upon. He wasn’t making decisions anymore, just functioning and performing like he was supposed to. And every mistake he made, every negative emotion too great to conquer, every hurtful word from those he loved birthed a new mark on his worthless body. 

He really hadn’t chosen it, to be honest; he had ended up stuck after countless attempts with his usual coping mechanisms that had begun to fail him. It was always lurking in the back of his brain, a little nagging whenever he was upset or felt his emotions piling up like trash in an overflowing bin. No, harming oneself wasn’t productive and was quite the opposite. Destructive. He knew that. But his mind had been made the second he saw the cheap little pencil sharpener sitting in front of him on the desk all that time ago. 

His skin was now littered with scars ranging from deep reddish maroon to faded pinks and whites. The darker and fresher ones were much, much more prevalent, revealing how incorrigibly intense his “problem” had gotten. 

He wouldn’t let his secret get out, though. He’d made it this long, this far.  
Grabbing some gauze, he began wrapping his forearms tight with the bandage. Disregarding the nagging voice in his skull that told him to clean out his cuts, don’t get an infection!, he continued with one more layer before calling it quits. He secured the end by tucking it under the first layer. Good enough. Time to get presentable. 

Paul’s hands shook as he pulled his pants on, flinching at a knock on the door. 

“‘M gettin’ dressed!” 

“Just me, love,” John’s muffled voice said. 

Paul sighed, running his hands down his face and then quickly through his hair. He checked his sleeves, and after tugging them down to a satisfactory length, he opened the door and let John in. 

“Hey,” John said, pen and notebook in hand, ”wanna write?” 

Paul smiled. 

“Yeah, sure.”


	2. mmm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> was this well-planned out? no  
> was it in any way, shape, or form planned? no  
> basically edited word vomit or something, i don’t know man i just live here

He was screaming and banging his head against the wall. 

Or he wished he could be doing those things, was imagining himself slamming his head until either the plaster or skin and bone gave. Pain throbbed behind his eyes and throughout his skull, long sleeve shirt and jacket pulled all the way to his palms. 

Paul grimaced when Ringo placed a hand on his shoulder, the other man’s fingers pressing into his cuts. The thin scabs were only a day old, and the flesh surrounding them was pinkish-red and agitated still. 

He blankly smiled at the other man, deciding not to reply as he hadn’t heard a thing he’d said. His ears weren’t working, and words were falling from Ringo’s lips to the ground, incomprehensible. Mumbling a noncommittal and neutral reply, Paul quickly left the apartment, shuffling down the stairs and outside to have a smoke. 

He let out a small whimper, hands shaking from anxiety. Every time someone touched his cuts, even through the fabric of his clothes, his brain told him, “they know. they know what you did.” and now, he had to calm himself down for the hundred thousandth time. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. 

—

It wasn’t fucking easy.

—

John had seen the blood on Paul’s sleeves one day when the younger man hadn’t been careful enough. He’d been getting careless for a while, leaving the disassembled sharpeners and their little razors on his desk, not bothering to bury the bloody tissue paper in the trash, not bandaging his cuts unless they were hitting the thin layer of subcutaneous fat in which he could get a terrible infection. John wasn’t stupid either, and had seen a few of the scars while getting rather randy with Paul. They were typically drunk while getting intimate, but on this day, they were not. 

Paul’s stomach had sunk into his toes, face going pale as a sheet, hands beginningto tremble. John just held the bloodied fabric between his two fingers, looking up at Paul who seemed ready to bolt. The other man’s palm rested on a patch of lines on his arm, the rough scabs obvious to the touch. His head was swimming when John finally spoke up. The rushing sound in his ears overpowered any words that came out of the other man’s mouth, eyes going to lips to try and decipher the movements.

Paul was going to pass out, he felt it. He turned away from John, pulling his sleeve out of his grasp. His feet wouldn’t move fast enough; of course they just had to be in public, he thought, starting to run towards their flat. Paul let out a gasp as his foot hit the divot in the cement sidewalk that was highlighted by orange spray paint, his face coming down to hit the ground as he tripped. 

He finally blacked out; knocked out, rather. His subconscious (unconscious, he wondered?) mind praised his clumsiness, the blackness and tiny pricks of light behind his eyes welcoming him. He only had a few moments of blissful peace before he felt someone shaking him, shaking the stars out of his skull. He frowned, trying to go back to swimming through the endless night sky in his head. The illusion was lost quickly, much to his dismay. 

“Paul!” 

He heard John speaking to other people, telling them that everything was fine, to leave them be. 

“Paul, wake up!” 

Paul couldn’t respond, his body still drowning in the molasses of peace and quiet in his head. His tongue slowly unfroze, along with the rest of his mouth. His eyes blinked slowly at the fuzzy world. He felt rough brick wall against his back and cement under his fingers, especially feeling the tough pads of John’s hands cupping his jaw. 

“‘M sorry, John,” he said softly, reaching up to grab his hands and pull them down. He laced their fingers together, squeezing, before letting go to push himself off the ground. The thing that made his stomach knot was the shoddily masked look of fear on John’s face. 

“What the fuck was that, Macca? Huh?” John replied, helping the other man up. “Runnin’ away from me? Really?” His voice softened, walking them back to their building and up the stairs to their flat. Paul stayed quiet, numbly allowing John to lead him with a hand on the small of his back. 

“If you hadn’t hit yer head, I would’ve socked you in the face myself.” He opened the door and ushered Paul inside, shutting it behind them and locking it. 

It wasn’t fucking easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you actually made it here, i’ll send you a congrats letter in the mail. like, for real. i’ll also hug you, cus damn. commitment!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i’m not exactly proud of this chapter. please please feel free to critique!! dialogue is not at all my strong suit, so i’ve been sitting on this for about a month cus it’s been a battle to get it in satisfactory condition, but i’ve given up lol  
> any critique, likes, dislikes, any messages at all always welcome :)

Ringo was pulling on his work clothes in the living room, bag on the floor. He looked up, eyes widening when he looked at Paul. 

“Boys, what ‘appened? C’mere, Paul,” he said, ushering him into the kitchen. He quickly wet a towel, bringing it to Paul’s forehead. 

He hissed at the feeling, choosing not to reply. John scoffed (mostly to himself) before giving an answer. 

“Paul tripped. Fuckin’ clumsy bastard’s not even pissed yet. Wish we was, though,” he returned. John controlled himself, only biting out the first sentence. His voice slowly got more neutral in a weak attempt to not alarm Paul again. 

“Christ, you’re lucky it’s just a little cut. Don’t _think_ ye’ve got a concussion, at least. Gotta be more careful, son!”

“Thanks, Rings, I know,” he chuckled. There was a dull throb in his head now, since the adrenaline or whatever the hell he’d felt had worn off. 

Paul shuffled uncomfortably in the silence, placing a finger in his mouth to attack the nail before John finally spoke. 

“We’ve got something to talk about though, Rich, I think you should be involved in the conversation too.”  
Paul paled as his stomach dropped into his toes. John sighed before continuing.  
“Go to work though, we’ll have it later. We’ve- Paul ‘n I’ve gotta have our own little chat first.” John’s expression changed again, one part annoyance or anger and another part that looked similar to well-muted worry. 

Ringo hummed in response, shifting his benign but quizzical gaze between the two men before him. He placed a hand on Paul’s back and patted gently, smiling as he said, “You’re gonna be alright, Paul, ‘n when I get home, let me know if you need anything, okay? John and George’ll be here for you in the meantime, don’t be afraid to bug them if you feel ill.” 

Removing his hand and grabbing his bag for work, Ringo tugged his coat on. “Now John, it’s okay to let him sleep, but you’ve gotta make sure he’s not y’know, uncharacteristically moody or agitated and that he’s feelin’ alright first.” 

John quirked a brow to prompt further explanation from the shorter man, his expression still a bit angry.

“I’m serious, if Paul’s got a concussion, sleeping is the worst thing for him if you don’t keep checkin up and make certain of any symptoms he’s got.” He turned to the other man, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And Paul, tell John if you feel confused or dizzy, or if yer feelin’ nauseous ‘n gonna throw up, cus he’ll need to take you to hospital.” 

“Alright, Mummy, we shall do so. I’ll keep an eye on the princess.”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that, John.” Paul hissed before going back to biting his nails. 

Ringo rolled his eyes at John and gave him a swat to the chest before shrugging his pack onto his shoulders and opening the door. “Feel free to knock him over the head if you’d like, luv, I won’t be angry,” he stage-whispered to Paul, who smiled back at him, waving the man out the door. 

“Thanks, Ritchie. You’ll be late to work if you don’t leave now, mate. See you tonight.” 

“Yer welcome. I’ll see you when I see you, we’re closing late, unfortunately. Be good!” He shut the door behind him. 

Paul reached into his pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He went to light up, but John grabbed his wrists, clicking his tongue in disapproval. 

“I’ll hold onto those for you, luv, I don’t think Mummy Starr would approve of smoking right now.” 

Rolling his eyes at the older man, Paul scoffed. “You’re not my father, John, I’ll be fine. I don’t even have a concussion, and he didn’t say shit about havin’ a fag,” he retorted, attempting to tug his hands out of his grasp. But John wouldn’t let go. 

“C’mon, I’m not letting you smoke right now. Seniority rules, and don’t give me that look. I don’t care. You hit your head pretty good, so yer gonna do as I say while Ringo’s away, or else I’ll tie you to yer bed and we’ll sit there until he comes home.”

Before Paul could respond, George wordlessly walked in, plucked the pack of cigs out of his hand, and flicked John’s ear for good measure before fleeing the scene. 

“Hey! Come back, thief!” 

The thief did not come back. When Paul tried once again to get out of John’s grip to go and chase after George (that was his last bloody pack!! and his only lighter, too >:00), John pushed him onto the couch that sat a few paces behind where they stood before. 

“I’ll sit on ye if I have to, son, so don’t fuckin try me,” he said with a smirk. 

Paul glared at the older man, trying to suppress a smile. He reached a leg out to kick John where it hurts, but the other man caught his foot and threw it down before plopping down next to him. 

Silence washed over them, though not totally uncomfortable. Paul glanced over at John’s lap, gaze running over the man’s familiar hands with ease. Each vein in place. He wanted to ask for a hug, for a gesture that would cement that they were still…. whatever they were even though John fucking _knew_ but Paul was too 

Too. 

Too what? Paul didn’t even know. Words ran through his mind slowly, brain feeling bogged down like an overloaded conveyor belt. Creaking and stuttering and bothersome, irritating in its inefficiency. He didn’t know what he was. Was being. 

He felt John place a hand on his knee, shaking the limb gently and snapping him out of his trancelike musings. Blinking quickly, Paul’s glazed over eyes quickly honed in on John’s sitting behind the thick glasses. 

“Hm?”

“What’s on yer mind, huh?” John asked, poking the man’s shoulder. “Don’t say it’s nothin’ either, or else you’ll never get your ciggies back.”

Paul huffed out a laugh, giving him a playful glare and bumping his knee with his own. “Thinkin’ about how I want a fag but you’re a prick and let George take them. If he smokes them all, you owe me a new fuckin’ pack.”

He couldn’t help but smile. John’s stupidly handsome face made him too happy. 

“Oh, is that so? You’ll have to ask a bit nicer if you really want a new one, son. Naughty language won’t get you anywhere.” John poked him in the ribs this time, a grin on his lips that was progressively becoming more wicked. He made their signature spidery trail up his chest to poke his nose. “If you're nicer, I’ll get you more than a new pack.”

“Aye, you may be right, but before you start tickling me, I’ve gotta use the loo. Wouldn’t want me pissing on you now, would we?” 

“Maybe we would.” John waggled his eyebrows, and Paul picked up a wadded up piece of paper off the floor to toss at the other man with a “Yer dAFT, John!” before leaving his seat and heading down the hall. 

The smile evaporated off his face as he entered the bathroom. He hesitated by the sink, not daring to get any nearer to the tub or toilet. His ankles and wrists and shoulders and thighs and stomach and hips and even his chest itched at the thought of it. 

The worst part was how much his heart (his soul?) ached behind his ribs; the dark, hardened, grimy mass of blood clots and soaked cotton and gauze that resided in the flesh and bone cage also known as his thoracic cavity. Very gear, Paul, using big words. 

Pain. It was pain. Nothing more, and definitely nothing physically tangible. But he made it physically tangible. Things are much easier to understand and control and deal with that way. 

If Paul sat down on the porcelain of either the toilet or bathtub, he would soon go hunting for his razor blades or even resort to John’s or George’s or Ringo’s shaving razors to use on himself to ease the pain, the ache. The itch. His own skin fucking itched with the need to slice it open. 

He should go talk to John, he thought, but his brain only harbored that thought for a second before brushing it aside. Foolish, Paul. Nice try. 

John can’t help.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ramblings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y’all. i hope everyone is safe and well out there. i’m an american so uh... all i can say is [redacted bc politics bad]  
> i’m sorry for how short all of my chapters are. i want to start writing longer ones but i’m not sure how much the quality will suffer in turn lmao. anyway! did i perhaps have a pair of pants like paul’s? yes! this may or may not be based off of those exact pants that i still own. idk man i’m just vibing (i also have a fever lmao so maybe i can blame my behavior on that?)  
> anYWAY STAY SAFE AND HEALTHY. I LOVE YOU.

Sometimes, just sometimes, he wished that his cuts would stay raw and irritated for a little longer. If he cut too shallow, they’d scab up in a day or two which was no fun. All the scabs did were itch and itch and itch and itch some more. On the contrary, when fresh and open wounds rubbed against the fabric of his pants, Paul relished in the shameful euphoria that buzzed under his skin. It stung in a certain, unnameable way that couldn’t be described on its own, only explainable as a sick sort of pleasure. Unable to be elaborated coherently upon or exacted. 

It was much better than the itching. 

Paul owned a pair of pants, black, and the pocket linings were white-ish. The linings were, of course, on the inside of his pants and pressed against the skin of his legs.

He liked those pants. 

When he cut his legs and he didn’t want to bandage them up properly for whatever reason, the dark and thick fabric of the pants soaked it all up and told no tales; what the fabric couldn’t hold would be smeared on his legs, a thin coat of red tinting them. The only part of those pants that told tales were the pocket linings. The white-ish and vaguely see-through fabric was splotched with brown stains, and one of them was stained with both the brown and blue. A pen had broken in that one. 

Every time the brown, splotchy stains seemed to fade, Paul would wear the pants again and just so happen to cut on the sides of his thighs. He always forgot that they’d stain. 

One time, he’d forgotten a tissue in his pocket and slid the pants back up and onto his legs, left hip still oozing blood. Later in the day, he reached into his pocket to grab the tissue (his nose was runny) and ended up pulling out a bloody one. The cuts had oozed through his pocket. He threw the bloodied tissue away quickly. 

Paul’s more colorful clothes began to see less and less daylight as he chose to wear those more devoid of stain-able fabrics. But that was usually only when he didn’t want to clean up the blood. No one noticed his outfits and their veiled purpose. 

No one really noticed him refusing to wear shorts, either, or seemed to, at least. It _was_ still pretty cold out. He never did enjoy showing more skin than necessary in the cold. 

It wasn’t his fault that the only skin available was above and below where his underwear covered. 

He didn’t particularly want to cut on his arse. He liked his arse to a certain degree. Now hips, those were free real estate. Lower stomach right above his privates was reasonable as well, but he hated how close the veins there seemed to be to the surface. He’d cut his ankles before, same with the tops of his feet. Those were easily covered with socks. The only trouble was getting out of the shower and into his room quick enough so no one would see. Paul had had several close calls before with that. One can’t exactly cover their feet with their towel as well as their body with ease. 

Another thing: Paul didn’t cry while doing such terrible things to himself. He wouldn’t exactly use the word terrible to describe his little habit, but. Nonetheless. He dragged razor blades and scissor blades and occasionally very sharp knives across his skin and tore it open with dry eyes. He didn’t need to cry. He replaced the flow of tears down ne's face with the splatter of his own cells, red and rich with his own DNA, on porcelain. 

His blood did the weeping for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey if u made it here and would like to leave a comment, please do! literally about anything. if it’s related to this fic, that would be sick, but if it’s not, that’s sick too! i’m lonely and can’t visit my boyfriend please  
> but also if you enjoyed and don’t want to comment, kudos mean the world as well!! whatever floats ur boat homie. i’m here for it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo im back with an update! we love not feeling good. the last chapter was a bit of a filler and wasn't exactly in the same vein as the ones before it, so I apologize if it wasn't as good as the others. this chap was written in two-three hours starting at like 2am so I'm tired, haven't read through it, and there's 100000% gonna be mistakes cus this is unbeta-ed. please call me out on any inconsistencies/mistakes/errors. i hope you like it!! if you do or even if you don't, comments are always always appreciated! they make my day :,,)) (as always, criticism is welcome and invited. please do if you feel so inclined! I'm not perfect [obviously lol] and want to improve)  
> anyways, hope everyone's safe and healthy. sendin hugs your way

Paul had pleaded with John to not tell Ringo what was going on and somehow succeeded, at least for the time being. John explained to Ringo that it wasn’t anything important, he and Paul had worked out the “little squabble” themselves, and that a mediator was no longer required. Paul was infinitely grateful that the eldest of them wasn’t going to get involved in what he himself saw as nothing to be worked up about (unless other people got involved. Like John.) He’d just have to be more careful. 

John was being a bit moodier around Paul, switching between being overly caring and protective or flippant and biting with his words. It wasn’t something the younger man couldn’t handle but it wasn’t exactly helping him refrain from hurting himself. He had to force himself to not cut for a whole day because John was trying to monitor his every move, would barely let him use the loo and was generally overbearing. Though it was with good intent, it just made Paul bottle everything up for the next day when John wouldn’t be so careful. 

Today had been particularly difficult. John was being passive-aggressive towards Paul and was consequently bringing attention to the fact that there was something going on that George and Ringo weren’t aware of. 

This made Paul angry. 

The worst part was that if he reacted, then the other two would know for certain that John wasn’t just being a prick and that yes, there was something going on. That would lead to questions that Paul did not want to answer. God, John was making this shit so much harder. 

Ringo was off to work at 2 pm, George was in his room working on some lyrics for his friend, and John had nothing better to do than to continue to bug Paul. They were sitting wordlessly in the living room, the telly showing a news broadcast that neither were really watching when Paul decided he wanted to be alone. 

“Right,” he said, clapping his hands on his knees and rising from the sofa. “I’m gonna go mess with my guitar for a bit.”

“Mind if I join you?” John asked, pushing his glasses up his nose a bit and uncrossing his legs. 

Paul stopped and resisted the urge to bite his lip. He had to watch his expressions when John could actually see his face well enough to react. Admittedly, he sometimes liked it better when John _couldn’t_ see him properly. The only thing the fucker could go off of was tone of voice and posture. 

“Erm… I, I don’t mind. That’s fine.”

“Right,” he replied, mimicking Paul and following him to the bedroom. 

Paul resented the muted footsteps on the carpet behind him, holding in a sigh. He resented how he couldn’t say no. He resented for once the feeling of his pants rubbing against the cuts on his inner thighs. He resented his need to please John when he’d already gone past the point of redeeming himself in the other man’s eyes even though Paul’s actions were justified in his own mind. He resented the fact that the guilt wouldn’t stop him from continuing to destroy his body.

He resented how such a small and meaningless interaction had made his thoughts spiral so quickly. 

By the time he had directed his focus back to the present, John had already settled on Paul’s bed with Paul’s guitar in his lap. He sat down next to John, scooting back into the pillows and settling in. 

“Give it here, John,” he muttered, shoving his own notebook and a pen into John’s hands and gesturing for his instrument. John strummed a messy chord, stuck his tongue out, and handed it over. 

Paul stuck his tongue out in response, nudging John’s knee with his own and proceeded to strum a proper chord. 

“Hard to play it lefty, huh?” he teased, moving into a crisscross position to better position the guitar in his lap. 

John chuckled, bumping their shoulders together. “Shurrup.”

Paul smiled and started playing. He hummed softly, not in the mood to sing. John flipped through Paul’s notebook and fiddled with the pen in his hand. After a few seconds, he began tapping in time with Paul’s guitar and hummed the harmony. 

“I looked at the sea, and it seemed to say, ‘I took your baby from you away.’” 

Paul kept humming and let John sing. 

“I heard a voice cryin’ in the deep, ‘Come join me, baby, in my endless sleep.’ Why did we quarrel, why did we fight? That’s why her footsteps ran into the sea.”

John stopped, engrossed in a page of the notebook. Paul kept playing, paying no mind to the other man. He wasn’t particularly concerned about him flipping through it, the contents being rather benign in nature. He leaned back, resting his head against the wall. Once he reached the end of the song, he mindlessly repeated the opening as he thought of something else to play. 

“What’re you drawing, John?” he asked, leaning forward to peer over his shoulder. He didn’t get a reply, the man in question continuing to doodle faces with exaggerated features in the margins. He then watched as John stopped and wrote underneath where Paul had left off. 

Paul began fiddling with his strings, trying to remember the chords he’d written for the song on the page so far. He wasn’t sure what tempo he’d go with yet; he would run it past George once he was closer to being finished with the lyrics. George was a musical wizard.

“This ain’t bad, Paulie.”

Paul raised his eyebrows, expecting him to call it ‘granny shit’. 

“Thanks. I like what you’ve written, it ain’t bad either.” 

John had put ‘Life is very short and there’s no time for fussing and fighting, my friend. So I will ask you once again’ in his familiar scrawl. It fit quite well with the few verses before it, the contrasting perspective complimenting them. 

The familiarity of collaborating with him put a smile on Paul’s face. The words resonated in his head as he strummed a chord experimentally, trying to match it to the lyrics on the page. 

He shifted on the bed and tried to reposition the guitar so it would stop pressing against his knee but was unsuccessful. They’d only been in his room for fifteen minutes or so and having a good time at that, but Paul’s mood was quickly beginning to decline. Guilt seemed to creep up on him at the oddest of times, and this was one of them. He wanted to be alone. 

“I think I’m gonna take a nap, John. We can finish later if you want.”

John stretched his legs out and set the notebook down on the comforter. 

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Paul parroted back, placing his guitar on the ground and leaning it against the wall. He picked up the notebook and motioned for his pen back, leaning over John to place both on the nightstand, a hand pressed on John’s thigh to keep balance. 

He settled back in and waited for John to leave. 

John didn’t leave. 

Instead, he too settled in and slid down to get into a more comfortable position on the bed with a quiet sigh. 

Paul turned to look at him, frowning slightly.

“You gonna let me sleep or what?”

John rolled his eyes, poking Paul’s chest as he replied. 

“Yes, princess, I’ll be quiet. Lord knows you need your beauty sleep.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he said with an eye-roll of his own. “C’mon, John, I want to be alone.”

John hmphed at that. 

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. And don’t ‘hmph’ me. Kindly shove off.”

“Get your arse under the covers. I’m not leaving.”

“C’mon, John, I’m serious.”

John smirked at that, sitting up and pulling the covers out from underneath himself. 

“I’m serious, too. Now first, get yer arse up so I can get the blanket,” he retorted, tugging harder at the covers. “Then get yer arse under it.”

“I’m going to break your glasses, John. Not hide them. Break them.”

“Mhm,” he condescended. “Move.” He pushed at Paul while he kept tugging with his other hand.

Paul let out a loud and long-suffering sigh as he obliged and let the other man continue. 

“You’re a fuckin’ prick, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” John smiled as he laid the comforter and sheets over their legs. He settled back in, resting his head on a pillow. Paul did the same on the other pillow. He closed his eyes, intimately aware of the man’s presence next to him. Now he couldn’t even rest, let alone sleep.

They laid there, the sound of their breathing filling the room. The sound of George opening his door and presumably going into the kitchen could be heard through the wall. Paul glanced over to his dresser to his alarm clock, the analog numbers softly glowing red back at him. 3:34 pm. Fuck. Paul would rather it be nighttime so he could actually sleep or at the very least be alone with his thoughts. 

He’d really rather be asleep right now. 

George’s door shut again. He clunked what sounded like a mug down somewhere and then there was no more noise. Paul opened his eyes. 

“It’s too fuckin’ hot under here,” John said suddenly, flipping onto his back and tugging his jeans off beneath the sheets. 

Paul snorted, turning towards him and shoving at his shoulder. “Okay, weirdo.”

“I thought you were gonna take a nap.”

Paul hummed in response, turning away again. 

“Hey, c’mere.”

“What do you want, John?” Paul was decidedly _not_ in the mood for a shag. Neither of them was even remotely drunk. It wasn’t dark in the room either.

“Fine then.” John moved closer to Paul, his body spooning Paul’s. He hooked his chin on the other’s shoulder, placing his arm so it laid on Paul’s side and rested his hand on his shoulder. 

Paul tensed for a moment, feeling the warmth of John’s hand permeate the fabric of his shirt and reach the scabs on his skin. He gritted his teeth and stayed stiff. 

“Is this okay?” John asked, sounding worried. No, it wasn’t okay. It really wasn’t. 

Paul moved to get up, shrugging John off of him. “I can’t do this,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

John opened his mouth to speak, but Paul just repeated, “I can’t do this.” He kept muttering it over and over as he stood up and left the room, shutting the door quickly behind him before John could follow. He hurried into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of vodka from their liquor cabinet, and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song they're singing is called 'endless sleep' by(?) Jody Reynolds. i was gonna do an everly brothers song but i thot this one would be better, idk. if you've made it this far (holy fuck this chapter was long), thank you for reading!! stay safe, homie.  
> also! i'm attempting to set this in the mid 60's. literally no one asked but I feel it necessary to mention: analog/digital alarm clocks probably weren't common in this time period, but I happen to be in possession of an alarm/radio clock that belonged to my grandfather and then my dad and it is around 40-50 years old (my parents are in their mid 50s lol). it is in fact digital and the only thing not exactly digital is the radio tuner, you scroll through the channels with a little knob on the side (it's missing mine as it's very very old) and it has like tick marks, ykno, for the channels. so that's what i'm basing Paul's off of lol  
> aNYWAY IM DONE I KNOW THIS CHAP WAS LITERALLY ONE THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED PLUS WORDS LONG SO YOURE PROBABLY DONE WITH READING THIS BUT YEAH I HAVE TOOMUCH TOSAY THAT NO ONE ASKED ABOUT LMAO (and if you're thinking that I'm probably not fun at parties, I cannot confirm or deny that)


	6. i'm so tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relatively consistent updates?? couldn't be me. if anyone has any suggestions/criticism/whateva, please please feel free to comment! thank you so so much to everyone who's taken the time to read this :,) kudos or no kudos, the love makes my day (esp comments omg yall are so so kind). hope you enjoy!! unbeta-ed so all mistakes are mine, if you see any, call me out pls

John had knocked on the door after Paul had already got the tap running, so he pretended not to hear him. The older man gave up quickly. 

Paul just wanted to get clean and burn away all the guilt and itch that lay beneath the surface. So he did. He let the tap run, filling the tub with nearly boiling water and taking swigs from the bottle he’d brought in with him. Once there was an adequate amount of water, he lowered himself into the bath and tried to relax for a few minutes until he decided to get clean. 

-

Stepping out of the bath, pinkish-red water glistening on his skin, Paul shivered; a sigh rattled out of his throat, drunkenly blinking hard in an attempt to clear his vision. 

Paul began to weep softly as his worry-bitten lips continued to bleed, thin rivulets of blood flowing down his chin as he shook. In addition to butchering his lips with his teeth, he’d cut his face shaving. The tears racing down his cheeks stung a bit when they traveled into and over a cut in the sensitive flesh. He heard a voice coming through the door, and soon enough they started knocking. The words were muffled and his brain was unwilling to make them out for him, so he stayed silent.

The pounding on the bathroom door got louder, causing him to panic even more as he fumbled with the towels and tissue paper to try and mop the mess up. He was far too drunk to be dealing with this right now; John’s anger and disappointment and lack of understanding and hurtful words and glares and fear and pain and emotion(s) lurking within his eyes and the lines in his face were waiting for him and god, Paul just wanted to disappear. 

“Bugger off, okay?”

His white y-fronts were stained with dark red splotches, as were his legs. He’d scrubbed his skin so hard in the shower that all his scabs had opened up, dripping blood onto his (minimal) clothing and all over the tile floor. 

The doorknob rattled violently as his sobs became louder. He tried to silence himself with a hand clapped over his mouth, but pressing against the raw bitten skin of his lips hurt quite badly, tearing more anguished sounds out of his throat. Paul’s saturated brain couldn’t put enough words together satisfactorily enough to make the banging stop, so he didn’t try again.

Suddenly, the pounding and rattling did stop. He desperately tried to catch his breath, kneeling on his towel and leaning forward to rest his head on the cool tile floor. He groped blindly for the bottle of vodka he’d brought with him, gently probing the empty air in an effort to not knock the glass bottle down once he found it. 

His wet fingertips finally brushed the bottle, and he let out a shaky sigh of relief. Paul lifted his head to glance around the small room for the cap but gave up quickly in favor of downing another quarter of the burning liquid. Why he would indulge in such a strong drink that would surely fuck him over, especially the next day, he wasn’t sure. It had been more favorable in the moment to get positively plastered in the span of ten to twenty minutes rather than down several beers to do the same job. 

It was easy and, in all honesty, wonderfully thrilling to have a grip on something as complex as emotion. When Paul was angry, frustrated, sad, inadequate, stuck, distraught, feeling any unwanted, “adverse” emotion, all he had to do was either get drunk or pull out a razor blade. Simple as that. Sometimes he hesitates before slicing himself open, but if he just holds his breath and uses a quick and imprecise motion, he gets the job done. 

Sitting back on his legs, he inhaled and held it in, fingers grazing over a particularly deep cut on his leg that hadn’t closed up due to said depth. It was only a few days old, but it hurt more than usual. The initial shock of getting that far into the layers of skin had paralyzed him for a moment, sitting and watching the milky and shiny whiteness of the inside layer quickly fill with blood and pour down his leg instead of the usual beading up and slow dripping of the more superficial cuts. It scared him. He had gone far. Very far. 

The open wound staring back at him still scared him but he just scratched the itchy flesh surrounding it and held back a retch from the vodka. The bloody scabs were drying up again and thankfully his towel was a dark blue, a few shades away from black, effectively hiding any blood it had absorbed. Now all Paul had to do was clean up the bathroom floor... Maybe John could help?

No, no, no. Not John. He already felt the way John looked at him differently, gaze loaded with something they’d never contained before.

Ringo, never. He’d be much too concerned. 

….. George? Maybe. 

George would be Paul’s best bet. He wasn’t going to be mean or make him feel any worse than he already did. (Or try to, at least. George was often quite blunt.) 

Paul was tired. Tired of hiding everything and tired of cleaning up everything and worrying about the one thing he couldn’t control: other people’s reactions. Managing one’s perception was so goddamn draining; being careful, being sly, being deceitful. Politely declining the infrequent offers of going for a swim in the summer, nonchalant in laughing at the friendly jabs made towards the long-sleeve-and-long-pants wardrobe he’d adopted, explaining away the wince or sharp inhale from the unwitting touch of a hand on raw and open skin hidden beneath thin fabric. 

Maybe he’d ask George to help him clean up. 

Before he did anything, though, he was going to finish the godforsaken bottle he’d brought into the bathroom with him. He’d puke it all back up later. No biggie. 

Paul had eaten enough earlier to offset any extreme dizziness and nausea at least at the beginning of his little alcohol binge, but now he was feeling _very_ dizzy. He also felt pleasantly loose. His crusty lips no longer ached and his limbs didn’t itch or sting. It was nice.

Yeah, maybe he would ask George to help him out. Paul grabbed the bottle by the neck and made a valiant attempt at finishing the last eighth off in one go, which ended with vodka spilling out the sides of his mouth with each gulp, dribbling down his chin and neck and onto his bare chest. With no more left in the bottle, he set it down, wheezing as he forced himself to keep from choking up. His breath caught in his throat as it burned, dabbing his lips with the back of his hand.

“Fuckin’, hell,” he rasped softly, clearing his throat and swallowing repeatedly. “Fuck.” He wiped away the excess vodka on his chest with his hands, giggling at his clumsiness. “Oops.”

How long had he been in the bathroom? He struggled to get up but finally (and shakily) stood, nearly bashing his head on the sink in the process, and began to haphazardly wipe the tile floor with his towel. His blood had gone _everywhere_ , most of it mixed with water from the bath which only made the spreading of it worse. No matter, Paul would clean it up. His foggy brain had already forgotten his loose plan of enlisting George to help. 

He pulled the plug from the tub drain and wiped down the lip of the porcelain then moved to the sink and counter to wipe away any stray evidence.

After a few more minutes of his uncoordinated attempts at cleaning up after himself, Paul decided it was good enough. Maybe George would let him hang out in his room. Paul wanted to walk around and touch all the plants he had in there, maybe ask if he could draw faces on the pots. He’d even bring a marker with him. 

This time Paul was certain: he was going to bug George until he gave in and let Paul hide from John in his room, and he was going to then beg the other man to keep John away for a bit. Fool-proof. 

He gathered up his clothes and clutched the now-dirty towel to his chest, deciding to make a break for his room first. Hopefully John hadn’t returned and stayed. Turning the handle oh so gently, he pushed open the door and peered into the hallway. It was clear. Paul did his best to tiptoe the six feet to his bedroom and succeeded, cracking open his door to see he was alone. He threw his clothes and towel into a corner and proceeded to get dressed, pulling on a warm sweatshirt and loose pajama pants. He didn’t bother with socks, as all that was left at the moment on his ankles were healed scars concealed well enough beneath his leg hair, which there was a damn lot of. (He sometimes had to shave patches of it away to even be able to access the skin to do what he needed to. It was a bit of a nuisance in that sense.)

Paul’s still soaked hair dripped water onto the back of his shirt but he was unfazed. He was going to go and hang out with George. Grabbing a permanent marker from his nightstand drawer, he dabbed at his lips again with the back of his hand, finding no blood. He left his blinds open but shut the door behind him, walking down the hall to George’s bedroom and knocking on the door. He waited a whole five seconds before opening it and entering to see George leaning out his window, screen removed and propped up against the wall. In a swift and practiced movement, the man ducked back into the room, holding a watering in his left hand.

“Hey, Paul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chap has a really shitty cliffhanger of sorts if u can even call it that, but it's cus I have an exam tomorrow and actually have to do things (ugh). life is getting hectic for once, but I'll be back sooner than I make it seem knowing me. haha. shoutout to fog lake and their song push and fugazi's I'm so tired, not to be confused with the beatles' song of the same name. i listened to these two on repeat for about six hours whilst writing this and the last chapter lol


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this has been sitting in docs for like two months or something i’m not even sure anymore... but i tried to re-edit it for the fifth(?) time and it’s okay enough i’m done rereading this shit sorry y’all... please let me know if you find any errors or have criticism, thoughts, anything!! the feedback gives me p o w e r (jk im just very much a slut for compliments or anything even remotely close to such again i’m so sorry)

“‘Ey, Geo,” Paul slurred, giggling at himself. His speech was so impaired it was funny. A small smile could be seen beneath George’s haggard-looking mustache. 

“What’re you up to, mate? I can smell your breath from here.” He set down his watering can, patting his bed to invite the drunken man to sit down. 

“Nothin’ much, really.” He paused. “What were you watering?” he questioned, collapsing on the bed and watching George pull open the curtains to the remaining windows. 

“My plants.”

“Whadda you mean?” Paul pulled himself up and off of the bed to peer out the window at said plants. George quickly put a hand on the other man’s shoulder to keep him from tumbling over the sill. 

“Be careful. I put some of them on the fire escape to get more light. I’ve gotta bring ‘em back inside soon though, before the sunset.”

“Oh. Isn’t that, y’know, illegal? Puttin’ stuff on there?” Paul let out a giggle at the thought of George having an altercation with the coppers over his plants. Or their landlord. Either would be quite funny. 

George hummed in response, scratching at his mustache and gently tugging. “Well, technically, yeah, but I take them back inside every night. Plus, that platform is so rusty that it’ll crumble if anyone actually tries to use it for its intended purpose. We might as well risk taking the stairs if there’s ever a fire.” 

Paul was satisfied with that answer, straightening up and wandering back to George’s bed. He sat down for the second time and let his upper body fall back, bouncing a few times from the impact on the rather firm mattress. It felt like a cloud to his impaired senses.

“Hey, George, catch,” he called, lobbing the marker from his pocket in the general direction of the other man. It sounded as though he caught it; Paul didn’t want to raise his head up too far to check. 

“What’s this for? You better not be planning to draw on me face tonight.” 

“Dunno. Not tonight,” he giggled at that. “But I wanna ask you somethin’, ‘kay?”

George nodded. “Sure.”

“You’re… You wouldn’t judge me or, y’know, anything like that, right? ‘Cus… Or I’ll have to leave if you do. ‘N if you’re mean, I’ll tell Richie that you’re being a prick.”

George chuckled, sitting down next to Paul. “I would never, mate, no. There won’t be any need to tell Ringo that I’m being a prick, I promise. Is this about him?”

“Alright.” Paul hesitated. “It’s not about him, no, no. Can you… can you lock the door, though? I don’t want John to come in,” he said softly, lowering his voice at the end. “I don’t want him to know.” He sniffled. 

George blinked, obliging after taking a moment to study the man’s face. With the handle locked, he returned to Paul’s side. “Go ahead, Paul.”

“Um… okay,” he giggled nervously, his body held too loose to denote his discomfort. “Okay,” he started again with more conviction present in his slurred speech. “I’m gonna be, just, real honest with you. Like always, y’know. First of all, I drank way too much to use nice soundin’ words and all that lovely crap, George, so I’m sorry if, y’know.” He drew out the ‘ay’ in ‘way’ for about seven seconds. As if George couldn’t already tell. 

“‘N yer special, sorta, ‘cus I’ve only, um… fuckin’... you’re the only one I’ve, erm. Fuck… Christ, what’s it... ah! _formally_ told, y’know.” Paul smiled to himself, proud that he remembered the word. His brain was bloody drowned in liquor. “You’re already special though, you’re me best mate.” He thumped a palm flat on George’s back, proceeding to pat him just a little too rough. George patted his knee in return, replying with a ‘thank you, Paul.’ 

“Okay… Okay,” he struggled to keep himself from giggling. “Uh… Okay. Can I just show you? Or should I… say it first, which…” Paul mumbled, more to himself by the end, starting to shake a bit. The stifled shivering jerks of his extremities worried George a bit. Jesus, this was fucked. 

“Take it easy, Paul, it’s all right. You’re all right.” 

“Okay.” He paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Paul sat up slowly, pushing himself up with unsure arms. He pulled up his jumper with the same slow, unsure movements to reveal his pale body. Paul struggled to get the sleeves rolled up, haphazardly avoiding any open cuts on his shoulders. He kept his arms in the sleeves and rested his forearms on his lap, the body of the garment bunched up underneath his armpits. 

George’s eyes swept over the drunken man’s frame, internally wincing at the mishmash of scar tissue, scabs, and raw open flesh decorating his body. The cuts themselves were rather uniform, almost in patterns. Red and pink and maroon and some stark white (the older scars, it seemed) lay in neat lines in various areas. George could see some of them leading to the skin underneath and below his waistband.

“I’ve got more on me legs but this is probably kind of heavy like, so I’ll only show you if you want to see.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say. 

What do you say? What the fuck was he supposed to say to his best mate showing him such vulnerability, something that so obviously reeked of pain? 

Paul was mutilating himself. 

What was he to say? 

After what felt like an eternity of Paul meeting his eyes and diverting his gaze, meeting then diverting, meeting, diverting, George spoke up. 

“Paul, could you tell me why? Why’d you hurt yourself like this?” 

The man in question reddened in embarrassment(?), biting his lip. He was silent for what felt like forever. 

“I dunno.”

George’s inquisitively mild expression didn’t change, but his eyes held an emotion that Paul couldn’t name quite yet. It looked almost like pity. Maybe not. He wasn’t sure. 

“I don’t want your pity though, okay? I _know_ what it looks like, trust me, I _do_ , but I swear it’s not for pity or attention or sympathy or… I just wanted to tell someone ‘cus I can’t go on like this. My — my _soul_ fuckin’ aches, Geo, my fuckin’ _soul_. I know I’m lucky that my life isn’t terrible and I have a roof over my head, I have so much, but _fuck_!” Paul’s face was still red, his breathing shallow and labored. 

“I bring the people close to me down, the people I _care_ about, down into my shit,” he spat, tears forming. “John can’t baby me, you can’t baby me, Ringo can’t baby me, my da and brother can’t baby me, you all have your own shite to deal with. I can’t even fuckin’ handle being _sad_ let alone angry! Why the fuck should I shove my baggage onto everyone else? I don’t have the goddamn right. All I do is add my own fuckin’ shit into the mix and make everything just that much more difficult to bear and it’s not fair. It’s not bloody fair to anyone.” 

Paul flopped flat onto the bed, pressing his palms into his eyes. 

“It’s easier this way, but it makes it so much harder,” he whispered, rubbing at the sockets as tears made their way out from under his hands and down his cheeks. “I don’t know, Geo, I don’t fuckin’ know. It’s easier but it’s so tiring.”

George brushed the bangs off of Paul’s forehead, gently pulling his hands away from his eyes. 

“Do you want a hug?” he asked, voice soft and free of the judgement that Paul so deeply feared. 

Paul choked back sobs as he let his wrists hang limp in the other man’s lax grip. He nodded. 

Sitting up again, he pulled his legs onto the bed and kneeled. He helped the other man pull the jumper back down. Paul leaned forward and clutched the other man tightly, pressing his forehead into George’s collarbone. Placing his hands on Paul’s back, arms wrapped around his torso, George returned the gesture, careful to keep away from any sore skin. 

“It’s all right, Paulie, you’re all right.” 

George felt the man’s tears and snot soak into his thin shirt, not minding a bit. He began rubbing Paul’s back, feeling the bumps and divots of ribs underneath his fingers as he comforted him, gently rocking the pair side to side. 

Paul’s fingers dug painfully into George’s skin as he gripped him tight. He kept repressing his sobs, allowing himself only to weep quietly as he sniffled, throat thick with excess saliva. 

“Hey, you can cry, Paul, okay? It’s okay to cry. You’re all right, mate. Just let it out. You’re okay,” he told him softly, continuing to rock side to side. 

Paul finally let out a sob. A proper sob; a bit strangled, but proper nonetheless. 

George mumbled soothing words in Paul’s ear, tears eventually pricking in his eyes as well. 

After a good long while (maybe fifteen minutes), Paul’s cries began to slowly peter out, so he decided to grab some tissues and wipe Paul’s nose; the man had dropped an arm from George’s frame to try and wipe the snot off his face with no luck. 

“Hey,” George said softly, letting go of the other man and placing his hands on his cheeks to get Paul to look him in the eye. “I’m gonna get some tissues, okay?” 

Paul nodded as he dropped his arms into  
his lap, drunken, childlike gaze fixated on George. He sniffled, murmuring an ‘okay’ as he shakily breathed in and out. 

George brushed the bangs off of Paul’s forehead and out of his face again, standing up and walking over to his desk. He plucked the box of tissues off of the surface and quickly sat back down next to Paul, holding them out for the other man. 

Paul gratefully pulled a few out, wiping then blowing his nose. George pulled over a small rubbish can to throw the used tissues out in, dragging it back into place after they were disposed of. 

“Thank you.”

George smiled at Paul; the man’s face was tear-streaked and slightly red, eyes puffy and dark. He gulped as he continued trying to smooth out his shaky and rattling breaths. Paul leaned back in to hug George again. 

The younger man (only by nine months, mind you!!) wasn’t used to holding his mate but it wasn’t unwelcome. Ringo probably would’ve been better at this, he thought. But Paul had trusted _him_ , so he accepted it and did his best. Hugging once in a while was good regardless of the circumstances. 

“Hey, Geo?” Paul mumbled into the man’s neck. 

“Hm?”

“I’m bloody knackered,” he sighed as he squeezed George tighter for a brief moment, then let his grip go slack. 

“Okay. How drunk are you, Macca?”

“Too tired to know, George. Still pissed, I guess.” 

Paul sighed again as he let go of George and allowed himself to fall back, turning on his side to curl up on the bed covers. 

“Hey George?” he asked (again). 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ‘ave a ciggie?”

George huffed a laugh, smiling at the other man. “No.”

Paul began to pout but his eyes were fluttering open and closed as he did so. “But you took my pack earlier! When are you gonna give it back?”

“I’ll get you another one tomorrow. It’s already past five, goin’ on six o’clock already.”

Paul’s pout turned into a frown, eyes pleading for George to give in. “What does the time have to do with gettin’ a pack, though?

“I’m sorry fer stealing your pack, Paul. I’ll repay you, I promise.”

Paul sighed, closing his eyes. “Apology accepted. As well as the payment.” 

“All right. I appreciate your willingness to accept it,” he said teasingly, standing up and pulling the covers off the unoccupied side of the bed to wrap Paul in. 

“You’re a good friend, Geo, I fuckin’ care about you. I’d beat up John for you if you asked, y’know. Or… Maybe even Ringo. But only if you asked,” he stated sleepily, snuggling into the blankets. 

“You’d really beat up Ringo?” George asked, feigning shock as he returned to the open window to retrieve his plants. 

Paul hummed in confirmation, nuzzling into George’s pillow. George would have to stay awake and keep an eye on Paul, make sure he doesn’t get sick in his sleep. He was pretty shitfaced so the likelihood of him vomiting his guts out was very, very high. He pulled in the last two potted plants and set them down on his desk. 

“Hey Paul? Can you lay with your back to the wall for me?” George gently pushed the man in question to get him into a safer position, placing one of his pillows behind him so the cold wall wouldn’t bother him. 

Paul mumbled something that sounded like “ta”, pulling the blankets tighter around himself as he did as George asked. He’d have to get Paul to drink some water when he got up. 

“I’ll be right here when you wake up, okay?” 

No reply. Paul could finally rest.

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to the camp counselor who comforted me when i couldn’t handle hiding my SH anymore. can’t remember if i talked about this before or not but she hugged me, held my hand, and told me her own story. she showed me compassion when i felt hurt and empathy when i felt alone. i’ll never forget her. i know this is literally a fucking fanfic but there’s a piece of her in george, man, idk i tried,,,, not hard enough but hey. i hope you folks out there have someone in your life to support and comfort you, and if you don’t right now, i hope and know you will in the future. i’m always down to chat as well. :) stay safe, y’all. it gets better, even with the ups and downs. there’s someone else out there who understands your pain.


End file.
